


My Everything

by ImpossibleElement



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Gen, Relationship Study, Unrequited Love, Weddings, set during The Sign of Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 03:05:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3675063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpossibleElement/pseuds/ImpossibleElement
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is forced to contemplate at length the sort of affection he holds for John at said blogger's wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Everything

[ ](http://tinypic.com?ref=34yxtz8)

###  ** M y  E v e r y t h i n g  **

 

 

“He’s my best friend.” 

That’s what he said when someone at his wedding asked him who I was. Best friend. That’s all I’ll ever be to him, and in reality, is also much more than what I expected to become to him when he and I first met. I never had foreseen or even dared to wish someday I’d be someone’s best friend, specially John’s. I’m not surprised about me hoping for it, since if ever I were to choose someone for those sort of sentimentalities John would be the only option. No, I am not even shocked of my condition regarding him; but I am touched to no end that he, of all people, would find me worthy of that title, even if it would never grow into something more. But it’s ok, it really is, because at the end of the day, it’s already more than I could ever ask for.

It goes without saying that our relationship is completely unbalanced. And I suspect everyone that has ever met us is aware of this situation, even if they’ll never utter a word about it. How pathetic it must seem to them, how worthy of pity to know how different both of our outtakes are. John is oblivious to it all, of course, and it’s probably for the best; I remember hearing somewhere that just a little bit of _it,_ is better than none. 

I, obviously, have known it for quite a while, but never as strong as it became since I was away for a couple of years. They say an addict is never in more need of a fix than when he’s in withdrawal. I valued his friendship before, his companionship. I even found it fairly practical to have someone who would split the rent and only complain a decent amount of times in return. But this other _thing_ : It wasn’t present. Of _it_ there wasn’t anything, till we were nothing. Or rather there was, but I always failed to realise it, to acknowledge it, because I was fool enough to believe if I swept it under the rug it would disappear on its own. How wrong I was. 

I’ve avoided analysing it too much in the past, because it’s no use. It won’t change facts, but now I’m forced to decompose it at length outside the celebration at 10pm on John’s wedding day. I walked outside because I couldn’t bear to be a part of what was happening inside of the venue anymore than I had to. I’ve completed my part as the Best Man, and for anything else that John could require, he has now someone else who’d be happy to do it, and with whom he would probably have a better experience at doing. It’s just my luck that I had to find a kitchen helper taking out the leftovers. Helper who just happens to be nosy enough to pry in my business when I’m trying to light up a cigarette. 

“They make a lovely couple, don’t they?” He asks casually, and he could not   honestly have chosen a worse time to try and engage me in small talk. I already despise it on normal days, and today I can only think of one thing that would be more painful.

They actually make the best couple, a perfect couple, but I can’t trust my voice on saying it without bitterness, so instead I opt for. “Suppose they do.” Mumbling under my breath, willing him to go away. 

“Are you from the side of the groom or the bride?” I can smell today’s food on him, and I let my mind wonder for a bit what it would be like to work a job such as that, before setting it on deducing him first. What I find, however, is far from interesting, so I take another breath from my cigarette and hope he will just give up if I give him one-worded answers, that always seems to put people off.

“Groom.” I reply without interest. Watching as the puff of smoke is floating away with the night breeze. I suddenly feel envious of the cloud of ash soaring, reminding me how it feels to chase after a criminal, which I now will be doing alone again. I probably should stop thinking things like that, John wouldn’t like it; but then again, John is inside with his new wife, and he won’t know nor care if I am out here mulling over the possibility of me becoming a speck of dust whisked away by the starry-night air. 

“So why are you out here, sir? The party seems really cheery.” Oh, kitchen helper, if you don’t stop going down that path you’ll just make me tell you about your mum’s affair. You’re almost begging for it.

“Not much of the _wedding type_.” Specially when said wedding is the realisation of all my nightmares. “I guess I may be the worst Best Man in history.” I laugh a bitter laugh at the irony of the sentence and expect him to get the hint and return to his duties, it’s usually the job of bartenders to deal with the sad one at merry gatherings, this kitchen helper is clearly not responsible for handling the killjoy, who so happens to be me for a change.

“So, you’re the best man! How fun, I’ve always wanted to be someone’s Best Man.” I can never understand why people insist of telling other people such mundane things about themselves. I suppose bored to death is a shameful way to go, but right now I confess the idea does have certain appeal to it. “So, what is he to you? Mate? Brother?” He asks with palpable interest.

“He’s my-” And I stop mid-sentence. I have to give it to the boy, he’s the first in a long time that can actually ask me a question I don’t have even the remotely idea how to answer. Because if he had asked what we are, it would be easy: Best friends. John stated it early. But no, he asked what John is to me, and I could never even know where to start. I am so accustomed to what I feel that I have forgone questioning its nature a long time ago, up to the point that the fact of not having a noun to describe what he is to me has become the case.

I can’t say “flatmate”, he doesn’t even live in 221B Baker Street anymore. And even if he did, John has never classified as just my flatmate, not even the very day he moved in. He has always been more important than what a mere acquaintance who helps you pay the rent could ever be. 

I can’t say “partner” either. He helps on cases, yes. And has proven vital to my work on more than one occasion. He’s really capable and reliable, and definitely someone you should have by your side when you’re trying to bring a criminal to justice. But our relationship has always gone beyond the professional realm, it came after the work, and crime solving will always come second after the domesticity I had with him.

I can’t say “bodyguard” or “pet” as some people believe he is. Because even if he has saved my life several times, and hasn’t left -not completely- even when somehow he has only been regarded for it with the little I can give; It’s not accurate in the least. I don’t dare to call him my property, and I don’t pretend to utilise him when it suits me and then cast him away when I’m bored or have no use for him. Nor is he always waiting at my beck and call, or in any way pinning after me. If one of us is pinning for the other it would be me, and I would know, I think about it every day.

I can’t say “brother” since even if he does care for me, he and I could never have the sort of relationship siblings have, and my experience with Mycroft is just another proof of that statement. I don’t regard him as I do my brother, and I don’t regard brothers as I do John. My dynamic with him is not founded on a blood bond, and even if sometimes it feels as if an outside force has sent him my way for its own amusement, I chose him as much as he chose me; all instant chemistry and compatibility aside. By the fact that he feeds me and sends me to sleep, and scolds me at least three times a week I would dare to say our relationship resembles more that of a mother and a child than two siblings, even if it’s still very far from the truth.

I can’t say “friend” or even “best friend”, because for me John will always be more than a friend, and _it_ has made quite sure of that. No matter how hard I try, I will never see him as a platonic being. I don’t look at him they way normal people would look at their “mates” and it makes me guilty enough to try and deny _it_ or even ignore _it_ right now.

I can’t call him “my lover” because, much to my dismay, it couldn’t be furthest from reality. John would never accept my proposition even if I were brave enough to present it. He’s not gay, and he will never be attracted to me in that way. And even if everyone believes we were in a romantic relationship before the fall, we never were, and now he is married and has a baby on the way and any tiny hope I had in convincing him was gone with the wind since the moment I saw how happy he is to finally be united for life with his one true love. I’m conventionally a selfish person, but this time I can’t be as self-absorbed as to not acknowledge the importance of someone who has the capacity of making John every bit as happy as he deserves. If John chose her, who am I to put my own needs before his and question his decision?

I can’t recall exactly when did I decided it was alright allowing John to seep into every aspect of my existence so effortlessly. Slyly taking over my entire life while I wasn’t watching. Letting him become important, up to the point where I prefer to hold my tongue for once, and let him give me the little bit of space in his life he can, than to speak up and see him leave forever. 

I wonder how peculiar it may seem to the stranger beside me. To watch me just stare straight ahead, questioning my relationship with the groom of the wedding as my cigarette wastes away between my fingers. I suppose I’ll never have an accurate and understandable enough definition for all the things John means to me. And I know this kitchen helper has no right of prying that answer from me. I have all the liberty to lie, to not answer, but I believe someone who has made me realise the true depth of my regard for someone who is supposed to be just my best friend, as my lack of ability at finding a suitable word for it, at least deserves to hear the truth.  

“He’s-” He watches as I flick the last ash of my smoke and put it out with my shoe, clearly hesitating, curiosity paints his face. Of course it’s an uncommon event for the Best Man to have such trouble at responding a query as supposedly simple as that. However, once I tell him the undeniable truth that is my conclusion, I see confusion furrow his brow as he searches for an answer to his suspicions in my face. I don’t see realisation hit him in the back of the head as I have already turned around and started walking away, ignoring his calls of “Sir!” after me. I continue, hearing the droning of the music inside fade away as I add more and more distance between myself and what just happened. I put my Belstaff on hoping it would protect me from the cold air, knowing that asking for it to shield me from anything more would be simply ambitious.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you all liked it. If you liked it, check out my other stories.


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